Dark Alley
by Grim Spectre Of Death
Summary: John is dying alone in a dark alley and only Sherlock can help him. The summary sucks, but I don't care :D Comments are love.
1. In which John Watson dies

Hiiii, everyonee! :D So, this is "Sherlock (BBC)" fanfiction. I hope you'll enjoy it! :]

Author: Grim Spectre of Death, aka. Itooshi

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Genre: Angst/Romance

Pairing: Sherlock/John

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: This is a SLASH story. If you're not a supporter of slash or you're a homophob, please do not leave a comment. Actually, don't even bother to read it :D

Part 1

"Fuck"

John groaned deeply. Wet, sticky, red stain on his white shirt was getting bigger with every second, and he could do nothing to stop it.

"Fuck"

He almost laughed at the irony of the situation. He lived through the war in Afghanistan. He lived through Sherlock Holmes' ideas of chasing criminals and killing boredom with experiments on human body parts. And now he was dying in a darkened alley. Alone.

He knew he was an easy target for a snitch, mainly because of his limping. The cane in his hand seemed to scream „Weakness" and the man who attacked him obviously knew it too.

Killed by a single shot in the guts. You and your bloody luck, Dr Watson.

Judging by the fact that the bullet very possibly pierced through his stomach, the doctor estimated he had a little over fifteen minutes of life left. The gastric juice will slowly leak through the hole, letting the acid to finish the job. How charming.

He lived in pain ever since he came back from Afghanistan and now he was going to die in pain… in pain a lot worse than the one in his leg.

John chuckled weakly. He had never though he shall spend his last minutes alone, lying on the cold ground in a darkened alley. He sniffed. The smell of cat's piss reached his nostrils, causing his already abused stomach to clench painfully.

Watson coughed. Blood spilled from his mouth and dribbled down his chin.

He thought about Sarah. She was a lovely woman. Charming, intelligent, beautiful. Funny. And he? He was pathetic. A bloody, pathetic cripple without a future. Being with him was dangerous, even more so since he moved in with Sherlock.

_Sherlock. _

John clenched his stomach and moaned loudly.

He should call someone, for God's sake. He still had his phone in his pocket. But whom? Sarah? No, no. She would panic. Harry? Ah, no. Watson didn't want to spend his last minutes listening about pubs.

_Sherlock. _

John rolled slowly to the side and with trembling hands reached to his back pocket, taking out his cell phone.

Sighing deeply he put the phone closer to his ear and waited. Silence.

"God damn it, Sherlock" he thought. "For once in your life pick up the bloody phone"

_"__Yes"_

Finally. John almost laughed with relief. Instead, a sharp cough shot through his body.

„_John, are you drunk again?"_ Sherlock's voice was slightly amused.

"N-no" said John, fighting to make his voice sound normal. "No, I'm not"

„_Where are you?"_

A cough came again, loud, hacking, painful. John curled into a ball, trying to ease the pain. His vision clouded with tears.

„_John? What's wrong?" _There was concern in the detective's voice.

Watson shuddered, clenching his stomach to stop the blood from flowing. He was half-conscious from pain and blood-loss but… he realized he didn't want to die. Not now, when he finally found a friend. Not when his life began to mean something.

"S-Sherlock" he chocked out. " I… I don't want to die"

There was silence for a second. When Holmes finally spoke, his voice was hard as a stone.

"_Tell me where you are, John. Quick, man!"_

" I… I don't know" John whispered, suddenly terrified.

"_God damn it! I told you so many times to pay attention to the details, doctor_" Even though Sherlock was speaking in a joking manner, John could still hear fear in his voice. "_Concentrate, John. What can you see?"_

Watson looked around. He was lying in a darkened alley, surrounded by old stone walls on both sides. One end of the alley was completely dark. The other, however, was dimly lit by a street lamp. There was a sign on the lamp, probably with a name of the street. John clenched his teeth and moved slightly. The pain shot through his body again and he couldn't stop a small cry from escaping his mouth.

"_John? John, say something!"_

"For once in your life, shut up" muttered Watson weakly, concentrating on the sign visible a few feet before him. "Lisson S-Street. I'm near L-Lisson Street."

Holmes laughed humorlessly.

"_I'll be there in a second. Don't move. And don't die" _he said and hung up.

John closed his eyes, phone still in his hand. Sherlock was going to save him.

For the first time since the day they met, Watson though "Thank God for Sherlock Holmes".

The alley smelled of cat's piss, vomit and blood. And of Death.

Sherlock looked around quickly. He could see nothing in the dim light of the street lamp, so he moved further into the shadows, his gaze searching for any signs of John.

A slight movement in front of him caught his eye. The detective rushed forward. He never considered himself the panicking type. Not once his blood froze when he stood in front of the gun handled by a criminal and yet now, in this darkened alley, he almost couldn't breathe. He could smell a distant odour of John's cologne.

A moan coming directly from his right brought him to his friends side. John was lying still in a pool of blood, clenching his stomach. There was a red stain on his shirt, his fingers were covered in gore.

Sherlock kneeled beside him. His fingers quickly moved to unbutton Watson's shirt. He paused for a second, seeing the pale, smooth skin of his friend's chest and he swallowed, suddenly afraid to see the wound.

"Sh-Sherlock?" Watson's voice was weak, a shadow of its former self.

"I'm here, John." Holmes said, wishing his voice to sound soothing. Instead, it came out sharp, almost angry.

"I'm… I'm s-sorry"

"Shut up, you idiot" muttered Sherlock. "Why didn't you call the ambulance?" He added, his phone already in his hands.

Watson smiled faintly. Suddenly, his eyes dropped, his head rolled to the side. He was tired and sleepy… Yes, so sleepy…

"John! JOHN!"

His eyes shot open. Sherlock was leaning over him, Watson's head on detective's lap. Holmes' hand ran through doctor's hair in a soothing manner.

"Sherlock…"

"Shut up. I'm here. The ambulance is on its way. Just… don't you dare to die on me, John."

Watson chuckled quietly then coughed again. He could taste blood on his lips. He haven't got much time now.

"Sherlock" he started."I… I'm glad I had a chance to know you."

Holmes shook his head causing his curly hair to fall on his forehead. John though he looked charming. He looked at the doctor with desperation in his big, grey eyes.

"If you die, I'll be alone" he said finally. John sighed loudly, trying to swallow a lump forming in his throat.

"I'm sorry" he chocked out.

He lifted his arm slowly, fighting with tiredness and pain. His fingers brushed Sherlock's cheek lightly, then his forehead, eyelids, nose and finally his lips. Holmes caught doctor's hand in his own and pressed it against his mouth.

He could hear the distant sound of the ambulance, but John's eyes were already closing. The detective took the dying man's limp body into his arms and held him close, inhaling his scent and fighting with a painful scream that wanted to escape his lips.

Watson weakly snuggled closer to the warmth of Sherlock's body and sighed, letting the darkness to embrace him.


	2. In which Sherlock Holmes weeps

His hands were shaking.

For the first time in his life Sherlock Holmes' hands were shaking and he could do nothing to stop them. Up until now, his body never betrayed his emotions. Always sure of himself, almost cold-blooded... He was Sherlock Holmes. He did not need feelings, they were of no significance to his work. Not so long ago, John called him a machine. A brain without a heart. And yet, his hands would not stop shaking.

The waiting room at Bart's was empty except Sherlock, who sat with his back straight, hands on his knees, steel-like eyes glued to the wall on the other side of the white, lifeless room. He looked lost in thoughts. But Sherlock's mind was blank, empty. He could do nothing but stare at colourless walls of the waiting room, letting the feeling of absolute horror fill his body.

What if John died? What if they couldn't save him?

He thought he had lost him in that dark alley. Blood was everywhere - on the ground, John's shirt, John's hands, John's face... And when Watson closed his eyes...

"Sir?"

Sherlock stood up from the chair he occupied for the last few hours and looked blankly at the nurse. Her face wore a professional, empty expression but her eyes...

"I'm sorry, sir. There was nothing we could do"

Sherlock nodded. Yes, of course. He should have known there was no way to save him. But even though his brain knew it was _logical_ for John to die from such a wound, he could not move, think, breathe... His legs gave up from under him and he fell to his knees, eyes filled with bitter tears. Sherlock hid his face in his hands and wept quietly, wept like never before. He could sense the presence of the nurse beside him, but her words made no sense to him. How could anything be "alright" without John? How could he, Sherlock, come back to the solitude he was so used to before John walked to the lab in this very hospital for the first time? He was...

"She did not suffer, sir, died in her sleep."

John was... wait, what?

Sherlock lifted his head. The nurse was kneeling in front of him, her eyes full of understanding.

"What?" he rasped out, voice hoarse.

"Sir?"

"She?"

"Yes, sir. Mrs. Joanna Walker. Your grandmother."

Sherlock laughed. Ignoring the startled look the nurse gave him, Sherlock got up to his feet and laughed, relief visible in every inch of his long, slim body. He wiped the tears from his face quickly, trying to hide the evidence of his weakness.

"I don't know the lady, madam" he said finally, eyeing the nurse with his grey eyes. She blinked in shock for a few seconds, then started to apologize to him with the most convincing look of bewilderment upon her face he ever saw.

"Mr. Holmes?"

He turned around to look at the doctor standing in the door, looking at him with unreadable expression. Sherlock, ignoring the still apologizing nurse, nodded quickly.

"I'm Doctor Peterson. If you could follow me, sir."

They walked through empty corridors in silence, emotions building up inside the detective with every step they took. His hands would not stop shaking.

The doctor stopped outside white door with number 513 on it and looked briefly at Sherlock.

"Before we come in, I need to tell you few things. Fortunately, the bullet only scratched the wall of the patient's stomach, causing severe bleeding. We managed to stop the blood loss and close the wound. Mr. Watson is still under the influence of morphine and other painkillers, he might not recognize you. We woke him up from the narcosis about half an hour ago, so he's still very weak. Please, do not exhaust him."

Sherlock nodded, not really listening. John was alive. Alive. John was alive and he's going to be okay. Soon, they'll be together at 221b Baker Street again, sitting in front of the telly watching James Bond movies.

He _needed _to see him. Now.

The doctor opened the door, letting the detective inside. The first thing Sherlock realized when he entered the room was how pale and small John looked on the white bed, surrounded by cables and machinery that kept him alive. Holmes looked at the screen of the cardiograph, noticing the steady, but still weak pulse.

"S-Sherlock?"

The detective looked down at his friends. John's eyes were barely open and looking at him, the deep ocean-blue irises were _alive_, not _dead_, and they were _seeing_ him...

Sherlock took John's hand in his own, pressing it against his face to feel its warmth.

_Not cold, warm, so warm..._

"John" he chocked out, his throat tight with emotions.

"You look horrible" John said weakly and Holmes chuckled hysterically.

"Your powers of deduction are improving, my dear doctor."

"I'm learning from the best"

They stared at each other in silence. John's hand was still pressed against taller man's cheek, the detective's steel-like eyes locked with doctor's blue ones...

Sherlock leaned forward and smiled slightly when John lifted his head up a little. Their lips touched softly. Feeling the delicate touch of Watson's mouth upon his own, Sherlock deepened the kiss almost brutally, holding John's face in his hands, trying to stop dry sobs from escaping his throat. The doctor lifted his arms to put them around his friend's neck and pull him closer still, his fingers making their way through curly black hair.

When they finally pulled apart, Sherlock rested his forehead against John's, his breath quick and uneven. Their eyes met again and John smiled widely. Holmes swallowed.

"I thought... I thought you..."

" I know."

Sherlock sighed deeply, closing his eyes. John was okay. Warm and alive. Not cold and dead, lying alone in that dark alley, his body slowly consumed by rats, ocean blue eyes wide open and dead, dead, dead...

He felt warm fingers on his cheek and sighed again, leaning into the touch.

"I'll be fine" John said.

And Sherlock believed him.


End file.
